by S W Kane
‘Mr Sweet? I’m DI Kirby,’ said the man outside. ‘And this is DI Anderson.’
Raymond pulled himself together and managed to say ‘hello’.
‘May we come in?’ asked the detective. ‘We have a few questions for you.’
‘Oh, erm, yes.’ Raymond stood aside as the two men entered the small room, then pushed the front door closed.
The three of them stood awkwardly in the centre of the room. Raymond had never had guests before – well, not like this – and he wasn’t sure how to conduct himself. He tried to think what Mrs Muir would do, but realised that he didn’t have any sherry, let alone those funny little glasses she used.
‘We’d like to speak to you about last night,’ said the one called Kirby. ‘Why don’t we sit down?’
‘Oh, erm, yes,’ said Raymond. He must stop saying ‘erm’, but before he knew it another one had popped out. ‘Erm, yes, sit down. There.’ He pointed at his old sofa. ‘I’ll perch.’ He’d heard Mrs Muir say that on several occasions. I’ll perch, dear. Somehow it didn’t sound the same when he said it.
‘Last night,’ the policeman began.
Last night. His mind began to race.
‘Could you tell us where you were?’ The second one, whose name he’d already forgotten, interrupted his thoughts.
‘Oh, I was at home,’ he replied, relieved at being asked such a simple question.
‘You mean here, in this building?’
‘Well . . . no . . .’ He looked nervously from one man to the other. The first one was looking around the room. His eyes were darting over everything, including some boxes in the corner, like a fly looking for something to land on. They lingered on the bedroom door, which thankfully he’d remembered to close, then eventually came to rest on Raymond.
‘Well . . . I, erm . . .’ He paused. Perhaps it was best to come clean. ‘I was playing cards with Leroy.’
The two detectives looked at each other and then back at him.
‘You played cards last night with Leroy Simmons, the security guard?’
He nodded, wondering why this was so interesting.
‘What time was this?’
‘I – I suppose it must have been about eight o’clock?’ Unlike his own clock, the one in the cabin ran on a battery and kept good time.
‘And what time did you leave?’ The man was making notes now in a shabby-looking black book, which Raymond quite liked the look of.
‘Quarter to eleven.’
‘And what time did you get back here?’ shabby-notebook man asked.
Raymond couldn’t be bothered to explain about his own clock, about how he kept forgetting to wind it, so made a guess. ‘Quarter to twelve?’
‘You were with Mr Simmons from 8 p.m. until 10.45 p.m., then walked back here arriving at 11.45 p.m.?’
‘Yes.’ He nodded, vigorously.
‘Can you explain how it took you an hour to get back? It can’t be much more than twenty min—’
‘Twenty-two minutes if I walk fast,’ he interrupted. ‘But I get chips on a Tuesday night from the Rock Bottom Fishcoteque. Sometimes they save me a piece of cod, or if I’m very lucky, a Peter’s Pie. Last night it was chicken.’
The two policemen were now staring at him intently, and he didn’t like it.
‘Have . . . have I said something wrong?’ Raymond asked.
‘So you left Mr Simmons at 10.45 p.m. and went to get chips? Which exit did you use?’ asked shabby-notebook man.
‘The main one on Battersea Fields Drive. It’s the only time I use it. Leroy lets me out.’
The second policeman, the one without the notebook, got up and pulled out his phone. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, and went outside.
‘And then what did you do,’ the first policeman went on, ‘after you got the chips?’
‘Peter’s Pie,’ corrected Raymond. ‘They’d run out of chips.’
‘Okay, so after you got the pie. What did you do then?’
‘I came home along Daylesford Road. And went to bed,’ he added, before being asked.
‘And you were alone?’
‘Well, yes . . .’ It was sort of true.
‘Did you see anything unusual, either on your way to the cabin or on your way back, last night?’ The policeman stood up and began wandering around the room. He stopped by the sink and looked up at Raymond’s kitchen shelf, where the tea and sugar were – and the urn.
‘No,’ he managed, his heart beating a little faster.
The policeman turned. ‘You didn’t see or hear anyone?’
Raymond shook his head again. He’d taken a small detour and strolled down to the lake – to walk off his pie – and seen the Creeper, but he didn’t think the police would want to know about ghosts. Plus, he wasn’t supposed to go down there and didn’t want Calder getting wind of the fact.
‘How long have you lived here, Mr Sweet?’ The policeman was now leaning on the sink, his arms folded, watching him from across the room.
‘A long time,’ replied Raymond, slightly confused by the change in subject. ‘I do have permission.’
‘So I understand. You can’t be pleased about the redevelopment.’
Raymond didn’t know what to say. Was this a trick? He couldn’t even tell if it was a question. ‘Has something happened?’ he asked tentatively. He still didn’t know why the policemen were here.
‘A body was found earlier; Leroy Simmons discovered it on his morning rounds. Do you know anything about it?’
‘Who – I mean, no . . .’ He was stunned. ‘Where?’ he managed to ask.
‘Keats Ward. By the lake.’
Something registered in Raymond’s subconscious, shadow-like, and then it was gone. His throat was suddenly dry and he wished the detective would move away from the sink so he could fetch some water.
‘Do you have any idea how a body might have got there?’
‘I . . . No, I don’t,’ he said, shaking his head. An uncomfortable feeling had come over him, and he felt his heart beating even faster.
‘Or why someone would leave a body there?’
He shook his head.
‘Have you been in Keats Ward recently yourself?’
‘No.’ He never went to that place. Ever.
‘Do you own a woman’s coat?’ the policeman asked suddenly.
‘Pardon?’ said Raymond, taken aback.
‘A woman’s coat. Only I thought I saw one through your bedroom window.’ The policeman was now staring at him with such intensity that Raymond felt his cheeks burning.
‘Oh, erm, yes, I suppose I do.’ What on earth did they want with his mother’s coat?
‘Would you mind showing it to me?’
It wasn’t a question, and Raymond eased himself off the armrest of the chair, relieved to get off his ‘perch’. Goodness knows how Mrs Muir managed it; she must wear padded underwear.
‘It’s in here,’ he said, leading the policeman into the bedroom. ‘There.’ He pointed. ‘It was my mother’s.’ The coat hung on an old anatomical model that he’d found in one of the basement storage areas. It made a very good clothes stand.
The policeman went over and studied it carefully. ‘It looks burnt,’ he said, lifting a sleeve.
‘There was a fire . . .’ Raymond began, trailing off. The policeman was now looking at the exposed heart and lungs of the torso that lay beneath.
‘What is this?’ the policeman asked.
‘It’s not real,’ Raymond answered quickly. ‘I found it. It lights up, look.’ He reached behind the door and flicked a switch, and his mother’s coat lit up; the holes where the fire had caught it glowed pink from the illuminated organs underneath.
‘That’s quite something, Mr Sweet,’ said the policeman, smiling. ‘And collectable, I imagine.’
Raymond shrugged. He had no idea.
‘That’s made my day,’ said the policeman. ‘Fascinating.’
Raymond followed the detective out of the bedroom and back into the living room.
/> ‘Tell me, do you know of any other ways into Blackwater, apart from the two entrances?’
Raymond shook his head.
‘Are you sure?’ the policeman pushed.
‘The river?’ ventured Raymond, feeling he should contribute something useful. He wasn’t sure how the Creeper came and went, but then again, the Creeper could probably walk through walls.
The detective nodded. ‘Okay, thank you. And there’s no other way in that you know of?’
Raymond shook his head for the millionth time, wondering why it was so important. After reiterating that he mustn’t go wandering about the grounds and should stay on his own part of the property, the detective finally left. When he’d gone, Raymond stood by the window and surveyed his small patch of land, trying to decide what to do. In truth, he’d been putting off the inevitable for months, the task too daunting, but the reality of the situation was now very clear; somehow, without being seen, he was going to have to move his collection.
CHAPTER 8
Kirby was sitting in the dreaded Corsa, which even his mother took the piss out of, calling it a ‘student car’. He was outside MIT29’s headquarters, known to everyone as Mount Pleasant. MIT29 was one of the Met Police’s twenty-four Murder Investigation Teams in London and was located in an old abattoir in Southwark. Why it was MIT29 was a mystery to everyone, as was the name; Mount Pleasant was neither pleasant nor on a mount.
Kirby’s boss, DCI Idris Hamer, had called an 8 p.m. briefing to go through what information they’d been able to glean throughout the day, and Kirby was taking a few minutes to himself before going in. In his mind he ran over what they had so far: an as-yet-unidentified elderly woman, brutally beaten and left on a hospital bed in a derelict asylum; a mobile phone; and an ex-patient with access to the grounds. And then there was the bloody weather, erasing any trace of the murderer and confusing the sniffer dogs. Which brought him to the question foremost in his mind: how the murderer and victim had got into the asylum. Neither of the cameras over the two entrances to the asylum had shown anyone entering or leaving with an elderly woman – dead or alive. Had someone tampered with the camera and let them in – Raymond Sweet, Leroy Simmons? There was now an added problem: Leroy Simmons was missing. After Kirby had spoken to him in the Portakabin, he’d been escorted to the station where he’d made a statement. By the time Kirby and Anderson had spoken to Raymond Sweet several hours later, and discovered the discrepancy in their statements, Simmons had been released and was now AWOL.
A knock on the car window brought Kirby back to the present. It was Hamer. ‘You ready for the briefing, Lew?’ he asked through the glass.
‘Yeah, sure. Coming.’ Kirby grabbed his phone and notebook from the passenger seat and climbed out of the car.
Hamer was about the same age as Anderson, mid to late forties, and had been head of MIT29 for just shy of two years. Kirby thought he did an efficient job of managing several murder teams and was talented at the stuff Kirby knew he’d hate if he were ever to rise up the ranks – namely, being good on camera and kowtowing to the upper echelons of the Met Police. Not that Kirby was particularly anti-authority; he just couldn’t be arsed with it beyond a certain level. He had, however, detected a change in his boss over the past six months or so. He’d first noticed it at a colleague’s leaving do, when Hamer had seemed awkward and on edge, almost as though he were on his guard. Perhaps his marriage was in trouble – there were no kids that Kirby knew of – or perhaps it was simply the pressure of work.
‘Anyone been able to get hold of the security guard yet?’ Hamer asked as they walked into MIT29’s headquarters.
‘Not yet. We’ve been to his house but he’s not there. We’re trying to trace any friends or family.’
Hamer grunted. ‘We need to find him ASAP. The last thing we need is a missing suspect.’
‘Tell me about it.’
Hamer glanced at Kirby as they waited for the lift. ‘There’s something about this case that worries me already.’
Kirby felt the same. ‘Anything in particular?’
‘The location, the victim, the lack of witnesses.’ Hamer reeled them off one by one, using his fingers. ‘Something tells me this isn’t going to be straightforward. The press will have a field day.’
He was right, they would. Anything to do with Blackwater and the press were all over it like a rash.
‘Even my wife says Blackwater’s cursed,’ Hamer went on. ‘And she’s about as sceptical as you can get.’
Kirby had heard the rumours: from ghosts of past patients and strange glowing lights at night, to the land being cursed. That every major redevelopment plan had fallen through – for one reason or another – had only added fuel to the fire. Not to mention the few unfortunate souls who’d perished there in the intervening years: an urban explorer, two drug addicts and a suicide had all made the headlines when they’d died at Blackwater.
‘Ten minutes, everyone,’ called Hamer as he strode through the main office to his own, slamming the door shut behind him.
Kirby went over to his desk and sat down, absent-mindedly flicking through a pile of messages, most of which he could now bin. However, the one on the top in Anderson’s handwriting was a surprise – Jon Kirby called 19.40. His father. He checked his mobile and saw the missed call. Kirby wondered what he wanted; they didn’t see each other as often as they would have liked – his father lived in Cornwall and they both led busy lives. It was strange that he’d called the office and left a message.
‘You spoke to my father,’ he said, looking up at Anderson, whose desk was opposite.
‘Yup. Called just before you walked in.’
‘Did he say anything?’
Anderson shook his head. ‘Just that he was trying to get hold of you. Everything okay?’
‘Hope so.’
‘Probably wants to meet this new girlfriend of yours. Talking of which, how’s it going? You know . . .’ He raised his eyebrows.
‘Fine. Thanks,’ said Kirby, cutting him off.
‘Good. The stuffed fox didn’t put her off then,’ Anderson chuckled.
‘No, although she was concerned about the missing leg.’ Kirby looked at his watch – if he was quick he could call his father now. He’d just picked up his mobile when he heard his name.
‘Lew.’ A young sergeant named Steve Kobrak was approaching his desk.
‘What is it?’ he asked, putting the phone down.
‘Initial report from Newlands, about the phone found at Blackwater.’ Kobrak handed Kirby a piece of paper.
He skimmed the contents. ‘Good work. Have you run him through the system?’
Kobrak nodded. ‘He’s clean. Two uniform are on their way to his flat now.’
‘Okay, thanks.’ Kirby got up and went over to Hamer’s office and knocked, going in without waiting.
‘We’ve got the mobile owner’s name,’ he said. ‘Teaching assistant at Royal Oak School by the name of Edward Blake. Uniform are on it now.’
‘Good,’ said Hamer, looking at his watch. ‘Okay, let’s get this started.’
Kirby followed the DCI out of his office.
‘Listen up, everyone.’ Hamer clapped his hands and the room quietened.
Kirby went and stood by the water dispenser, pouring himself a cup. The room was stiflingly warm, despite the Arctic temperature outside.
‘This is what we know so far,’ Hamer began. ‘At around 7.30 this morning an Emeris security guard called Leroy Simmons heard a phone ringing inside Blackwater Asylum and went to investigate. He discovered the body of an elderly female in one of the derelict wards. Injuries to her face show that she was badly beaten, probably somewhere else, and, although the ME has yet to confirm the cause of death, he thinks a blow to the head and hypothermia are likely causes. Estimated time of death is somewhere between 10 p.m. and midnight. It began snowing heavily in central London at approximately 11 p.m. and didn’t stop until 4 a.m., which gave our killer plenty of time to dump the body and make hi
s escape without leaving any trace.’
People around the room exchanged glances. The death of a child was always the worst-case scenario, but the suspicious death of someone elderly and vulnerable was equally shocking in its own way. Photographs of the victim had been pinned to a board, as well as shots of the building where she was found and the surrounding area.
‘The victim was carrying no ID,’ Hamer went on, ‘and was not wearing a coat or any protection against the cold, which could indicate that she was taken from home. Since being questioned this morning, Simmons, the security guard, has disappeared.’ A general murmur went around the room.
‘Raymond Sweet, sixty-seven,’ Hamer went on, tapping a photo of a much younger-looking Raymond than Kirby had met earlier, ‘an ex-patient at Blackwater, who lives in the Old Lodge within the grounds of the asylum, claims to have played cards with Simmons last night between 8 p.m. and 10.45 p.m. Simmons then let him out of the main entrance on Battersea Fields Drive, and he walked to the Rock Bottom chip shop. The owner’s son, Nick Katsaros, confirms this. They give Raymond whatever’s left at half-price on a Tuesday night.’
‘Last night it was a Peter’s Pie,’ said Kirby, remembering his gruelling conversation with Sweet.
‘What filling?’ asked Mark Drayton, provoking a ripple of sniggers around the room.
‘Chicken. Allegedly.’
‘Okay. So we know what Raymond Sweet ate as he walked home. Moving on . . .’ said Hamer. ‘The camera at the Daylesford Road entrance shows him entering the asylum grounds at 11.36 p.m. What he did once inside, we have no way of knowing. But he was alone when he left and alone when he returned.’
‘We need to find Simmons,’ said Kirby. ‘And find out why he lied.’
‘According to Emeris, 6 a.m. was his allotted shift and Danny “Chips” Monahan should have been on shift last night. When Mr Monahan was questioned, he told us that Simmons had asked if he could do a double shift as he was hard up, and Monahan agreed,’ said Hamer, reading from the statement he had in his hand.
‘Does Simmons have a record?’ asked Anderson.